Patang (8 page)

Rathod looked around as he walked behind the site supervisor. Welders, masons, brick-layers, carpenters, electricians, surveyors, designers, engineers – the place was teeming with people. How on earth could someone have committed a murder here? Even in the rain, people were busy working and nobody took their eyes off their jobs to notice them. Sounds from the electric saws and concrete mixers to the rhythmic chanting of manual labourers filled the air. The entire place looked like a beehive, with hundreds of worker bees busy with their duties. Rathod wondered if the people who would eventually live in these apartments would ever know the immense amount of synergized work that had gone into building what they called homes.

After taking several circuitous paths around the construction site, the man pointed in a certain direction and said, ‘There’s the body.’

Rathod was suddenly brought back to reality.

‘Where?’ he asked, because he couldn’t see anybody around.

‘There…right there.’

Rathod followed the man’s finger and was surprised to see a huge yellow Zoomlion tower crane standing tall against the overcast night sky. The crane was one among several others on the site, and it stood aloof from its busy cousins.

‘As you can see, we switched on the focus lights on the crane
when the body was discovered. We were not using it this week actually. The other five…’

‘But where’s the body?’ Rathod interrupted him.

‘Oh, it’s over there, sir!’ The man pointed towards the sky.

‘Where?’

‘On top of the crane, sir!’

‘
On top of the crane?’
Rathod asked incredulously.

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘Who discovered the body?’

‘Umm…the operator, of course.’The supervisor consulted a chart in his hand. ‘Man named Nihari.’

‘But you said you weren’t using the crane?’

‘No, we weren’t.’

‘So why did he go up there?’

‘Umm…you will have to ask him, sir,’ the man grinned. ‘As you can see, there are so many people working here that it’s… heh heh…somewhat difficult to keep track of…heh heh… who’s doing what.’

‘I want to speak to him right now,’ Rathod said.

‘Sure.’

Fifteen minutes later, the crane operator came up to Rathod.

‘What’s your name?’ Rathod asked.

‘Nihari, sir.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘Barabanki.’

‘How long have you been working here?’

‘Here…in Mumbai, sir?’ Nihari asked hesitantly.

‘No, here, on this site.’

‘Around five months, sir.’

‘Do you operate that specific crane, or do you…’

‘We take turns, sir. Sometimes I run number one, sometimes
someone else does… I usually run numbers one and six…this one and tha-a-a-a-t one over there.’

‘How do you get up there? Is there a lift?’

Nihari smiled. ‘No sir, no lift. I have to climb up. There’s a ladder.’

‘The body is still up there?’

‘Yes, sir. Mishraji said it’s a police case, so we shouldn’t touch anything.’

Rathod hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘Can you take me up?’

‘You, sir?’ Nihari hesitated too. He had seen enough corpses for one night.

‘Y-yes…why? Is it not safe?’ Rathod fumbled.

The supervisor intervened, ‘Err, sir…on the contrary, we are the safest construction site in Mumbai. But…umm…as you can see, it is quite high…and it’s raining…so if you sli–’ The man halted midway as Rathod cast him an admonishing look. Turning to Nihari, the supervisor said with a nervous chuckle, ‘Nihari, take the gentleman up there…and make sure he goes first and you follow him, so that even if he…umm…heh heh… and where’s your helmet,
beta
?’

Rathod would never forget the climb up the crane’s ladder. By the time he was halfway up, his legs and back had almost given up. He remembered cursing the jolty elevator ride up the CNT – that now felt smooth compared to this. At every rung, he felt as if he would not be able to climb any further. The winds were so strong that Rathod feared being blown away like a twig, despite the protective railing. The rain lashed at his face, and he felt like his feet would slip any moment now.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Nihari asked in a terrified voice from below.

‘Huh? Yes…just…’

‘Sir, if I may say so…just relax your muscles. If your muscles are tense, they will ache more. So just…’

‘Yes, yes…just…one minute,’ said Rathod, as he swiped the rain away from his eyes.

When he finally reached the top, he was exhausted. He collapsed onto the metal floor and leaned against the rails.

‘Sir, come and sit here…come…’ Nihari said. He helped Rathod to his feet and escorted him to the operator’s cabin. Rathod sat down on the operator’s chair and asked as he panted heavily, ‘This crane was not being used this week, right?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ Nihari replied, even as he felt that the Bada Sahib should take a few minutes to steady himself. But Rathod went on –

‘So why did you come up here?’

‘I came back for this, sir.’ As Rathod tried to catch his breath, he saw Nihari hold up a pale and dirty blue windcheater in the dim light of the cabin. ‘I forgot this here when I came in last Friday. I’m supposed to operate number six tomorrow morning, so I needed this. It can get quite cold up here, sir.’

Still breathing heavily, Rathod scrutinized Nihari’s face and concluded for the moment that he was telling the truth. He then turned his attention towards the cabin. Photographs of Sai Baba, Bajrangbali, and of an old man and woman, presumably Nihari’s parents, were stuck on one spot next to each other. A red-checkered
gamcha
hung from a wire that extended from one side of the small cabin to the other. There were other items strewn around as well. An old dusty helmet with no strap, a couple of pulp-fiction titles with voluptuous women on the covers, a small flask, an Eveready Jeevansathi torch, an extension cord… As Rathod scanned the place, his eyes finally rested on
the plexi-glass windshield of the cabin, and as they did he saw a strange sight.

The ‘arm’ of the crane extended from the roof of the cabin to at least 100 metres ahead. The entire arm was illuminated by powerful bulbs, which glowed safely even in the rain. Although he himself wouldn’t dare to do so, Rathod realized it was possible for a person to walk on the metal beam all the way up to the tip of the crane’s arm. And it was on that tip that now lay the body of a man with something large sticking out of his mouth.

‘What is that?’ Rathod exclaimed with a frown.

Nihari opened a small cabinet near his legs and handed Rathod a pair of binoculars. As Rathod took a closer look at the corpse, he realized that the victim was a man, seemingly in his sixties. He would need a closer look before he could say anything else for sure. But it looked like the man was lying on his back on the metallic beam, and his head and body had been tied with several straps of some kind, which prevented his body from moving.

‘Just like a kite!’ Rathod whispered.

As the rain continued to wreak havoc outside, Rathod suddenly felt a shiver go up his spine.
Finally!
After so many years, he had come across a worthy challenge!

‘Is there a way I can zoom in on this thing?’ he asked.

Using Nihari’s instructions, Rathod focused in on the corpse a little more.

‘Is that a…funnel?’ he murmured, more to himself than to Nihari.

‘Y-yes sir…’ Nihari concurred.

The funnel was quite large, white in colour, and looked similar to those usually found in shops selling laboratory apparatus. It had been taped onto the victim’s face, and its nozzle shoved down his throat.

Why put a funnel in his mouth
, Rathod wondered.

After watching the corpse for some time, he handed the binoculars back to Nihari and whipped out his cell phone. Zooming in on the corpse, he clicked a few photographs. Finally satisfied, he rose from the operator’s chair and said, ‘I need a closer look at the corpse. Have it brought down.’

As Rathod walked out and stood by the ladder, Nihari hurried to his side and said, ‘Sir, let me go first, and whatever you do, don’t look down.’

Naturally, Rathod looked down, and realized that he had had it for the night.

A harrowing half an hour later, Rathod found himself kneeling in the supervisor’s office and intently looking at the corpse from close quarters, as police photographers clicked away from various angles. The man looked extremely haggard and impoverished, but younger than what Rathod had earlier thought – at least 10 years younger. Why had he looked older from a distance then? Rathod examined the arms of the man and realized why. There were several puncture wounds on the insides of both his arms.

‘Drugs,’ Rathod remarked.

‘Yes, seems that way, sir,’ a sub-inspector nodded and made a note in his file. ‘But what do you make of this?’ He pointed to the funnel.

Rathod observed the funnel intently for some time. Then he muttered to himself, ‘He was strapped to the beam in such a way that he couldn’t move…and there’s a funnel taped into his mouth. It looks like…the killer poured something into his mouth…and forced him to swallow it…but what?’

‘Poison, sir? Or acid, perhaps?’ offered the sub-inspector.

‘Well,’ Rathod got back on his feet, ‘we’ll only know after the post-mortem.’

The sub-inspector concurred. Rathod spoke to him briefly, giving him a few specific instructions, and then turned to leave. Suddenly, his eyes fell on the legs of the victim. Rathod frowned and kept staring at them for some time. Then, gradually, his face lit up, his knit eyebrows straightened. He rummaged around in his pockets to find a small cellophane pouch and carefully pulled from it a small piece of denim fabric with the help of a pair of tweezers. It was the torn piece of denim he had found at the top of the CNT. He knelt down and looked at a specific spot on the victim’s blue jeans – the small tear on the side of his right leg, just below the knee. As Rathod carefully placed the fabric on the hole, his face brightened like that of a child who has just completed a jigsaw puzzle.

11

As Rathod stepped outside the construction site, he grimaced at the journalists already gathered outside. It was a good thing the officers were not with him, else he would have been mobbed for a soundbite. Hanging his head low, he had just begun walking towards his car when he noticed a curious face staring at him from the crowd. He immediately hastened his pace, but Ananya caught up with him.

‘So you
are
a policeman!’ she quipped as she struggled to keep pace with Rathod.

‘You people are so…so…’ Rathod was irritated, and it reflected in his voice.

‘Fast? Well, we only try to be as fast as the news spreads,’ Ananya replied defensively.

‘And look at where that’s brought you…?’ said Rathod sarcastically. Ananya was drenched and there was a distinct shiver in her voice.

‘Please…just tell me who the victim was,’ Ananya persisted.

Rathod ignored her and got into his car. As he shut the door and turned the key, he looked out and saw Ananya standing in the dark alley, drenched and helpless but still hopeful, trying to shield her head with a newspaper – an exercise in futility. He nodded his head and sighed.
What won
’
t they do for a sound bite. Idiots!
Taking pity on her, he lowered the glass and shouted, ‘You shouldn’t wander about in the dark at this hour. It isn’t safe.’

Ananya pursed her lips. The man was hooked; now all she had to do was reel him in. ‘Well, I’m new to this city and trying to make it big, I guess…’ she shouted back over the rain, smiled and gave her perfect French shrug.

Rathod looked at her again. She was a mess – through and through. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to leave her there; it wasn’t safe.

‘Come, I’ll drop you off at the bus stop!’

Ananya hurried to the other side, opened the door, and said gratefully, ‘Thank you so much. I can’t…’

‘
No questions
,’ Rathod barked, as he raised a finger.

‘Sure.’ Ananya pursed her lips again and sat straight as Rathod drove into the night. She gleefully watched the crowd of scribes waiting outside the gate –
she
was in a car with the story! The silence between them stretched uncomfortably, but she didn’t seem too bothered. She looked out of the window onto the amber street as the wipers rhythmically rubbed against the windshield. Who would have thought that the rains, welcomed in the city by one and all, would turn into a menace? Rathod wiped the windshield from inside with his handkerchief as it began to fog up. As Ananya continued to look out of the window, watching the play of water droplets on the glass, Rathod glanced at her from the corner of his eye – twice. Finally, he asked her, ‘Where are you from?’

‘Siliguri.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘It’s in West Bengal…near Darjeeling.’

‘So you’re from the hills?’

‘No, Siliguri is in the plains. It’s at the foothills of the Himalayas.’

‘Hmm…and which paper do you work for?’

‘I work for a news channel…Sky News.’

‘I see.’

The silence resumed again. Rathod waited for Ananya to say something, but she didn’t, which was okay with him. At least she wasn’t asking any questions about the case. Journalists were a dangerous species. He, of all people, knew that. He remembered his days of crime reporting. Of course, things were different in those days. He, for instance, was more interested in the truth rather than the scoop.

After sometime, Rathod said, ‘You ought to keep yourself safe.’

Ananya said, ‘I am safe.’

Rathod looked at her and smirked. ‘Yet, here you are, driving down a secluded street in the middle of the night with a perfect stranger.’

‘No, I’m with a police officer.’

Rathod noticed the calmness in her voice. He realized that she was the kind of girl who knew what she was getting into. For a moment or two, he duelled with the idea of telling her that he was not a police officer. But he quickly banished the thought from his mind.

‘Where do you stay?’ Ananya asked conversationally.

Rathod considered the question and saw no harm in disclosing that information. He told Ananya where he lived.